The sky bled.
The villagers called it an omen when the moon rose crimson. Red light beaming down onto the reed-thatched rooftops. Some said it was because heaven itself had been cut open by the evils of the world.
The barks of dogs could not be silenced. Chickens trashed in their cages. Stalks of rice in flooded paddies bent with unease. The swaying of the trees sounded like a faint scream. Nothing was safe from the weight of the red light.
Within the small village's lone birthing hut, a woman screamed. Her voice raw with agony and terror. Carrying her screams into the cold night. A midwife hurried back and forth with hot water, clothes and a prayer muttering under her breath. Outside some of the village men and elders whispered of bad luck.
They whispered of demons. Spirits. The curse of the blood moon.
The child came into the world slick with blood. Her first cry was so high pitched, so piercing, that one of the men outside mistook it for a banshee. Upon the midwife looking at the child she saw a small girl. Frail and pale.
The baby's eyes were wide open. Her red eyes almost glowing in the moon's red light.
"The blood moon."
"She's cursed."
Voices from inside and outside the tent mumble.
The mother, sweat soaked and trembling, reached out weakly for her daughter. Her hands faltered halfway, falling down to the mat. Her chest stilling. The last breath leaving her body before she ever touched her own child.
The room was filled with nothing but the baby's shrill cries.
The men stormed in upon hearing the soft slap of the woman's hand onto the mat. Finding her dead on the floor on the birthing tent. The father, a farmer with calloused hands and a stern face, took one look at the crying baby and spat on the ground.
"A demon."
He muttered.
"She killed her own mother. The curse of the blood moon is real."
The elders and other men murmured in agreement. No priest was summoned, no name was given. In their eyes this demon child had no need for a name. Instead the baby was wrapped messily in cloth and carried beyond the walls, beyond the gate. Beyond even the light from the village lanterns.
Left upon a stone at the edge of the surrounding forest. Left to die alone. Her cries pierce the woods like arrows.
The villagers barred their gates and didn't look back.
The night was cold. Unforgiving to the abandoned child.
Dragging on forever.
But eventually the warmth came. Following the sun.
Following that was a ronin. Walking in with the morning mist.
He was a tall man. His armour lacquer, cracked and dulled from years without polish. His sandals frayed. Straw hat wide brimmed, shadowing his face. At his hip hung a katana. The sheath was as warm as the man who carried it.
He moved like one who had walked too many roads with too few destinations. Pace unwavering. Each step is the same distance. The war had ended many years ago. But men like him, nameless men left to rust like their swords, had never found peace.
At the forest's edge he heard a sound. Faint, thin, desperate. The cry of a child on the brink of death.
The ronin paused. He could've kept walking, most would. Yet something in the frail cries drew him closer to the stone. Closer to the bloodstained cloth wrapped around a baby only a few hours old. Her tiny fists clenched in the air.
When her eyes met his, the ronin stopped cold. Now he knows why this baby was out here.
Red eyes, not a soft red like an autumn left. But the sharp gleam of blood. The villagers had left her here to die simply because she was born during a blood moon.
He had seen what had become of those born on a blood moon. He didn't blame the villagers. Men and women born under the crimson light were akin to monsters. Cursed by some deity to bring destruction.
The ronin stood long in silence. Listening to the baby's cries.
He could leave her. Crows would come. Maybe wolves. Her crying would cease and she would die.
Perhaps that was mercy.
The only time humanity is equal is in death after all.
Yet her voice did not stop. The thinning wail did not stop. Did not weaken. Clawing at the silence with determination.
He stepped closer.
His jaw clenched as he removed the blood soaked cloak from around the baby and replaced it with a fresher cloak. The very one off his back.
She was no demon. Only a child. One too stubborn and too determined to die.
"Foolish."
His voice low and gravelled from years of disuse.
"You'll curse me too won't you?"
The baby coo'd softly. As if to answer
The ronin sighed, adjusting his grip as he walked into the forest holding the baby.
"Very well. Let your curse be mine."
That night, a fire crackled low in the hollow of a cliffside. The ronin sat cross-legged with the child nestled beside him. His sword lay on the ground on the other side of him.
His eyes moved from the blade to the child. She stared back, her crimson eyes reflecting the fire's light.
"You'll need to be trained. With steel."
He murmured
"Steel to fight back against the world that hates you."
His hand tightened around the sword. Memories of the countless men slain by the blade. By his hands. All of the names and faces lost to history because of him.
Perhaps it was fitting. A man who's taken countless lives being forced to raise and cultivate a life that will surely end in the death of himself.
He turned back to the child.
"You'll need a name."
"A name that's yours. not a title."
He thought for some time before speaking
"Keyuzu."
The child blinked. Before smiling.
The ronin nodded once. A firm nod. Sealing the pact of her name. Of Keyuzu's name.
He raised his sword up slightly
"I will raise you as a warrior."
He vowed
"Not a demon. Not a curse. You will learn the blade, through it you may carve yourself a place in this world."
The child drifted asleep. Causing the ronin to chuckle slightly.
"I'll make sure you're raised with morals too."
For the first time in many years, the ronin did not feel alone.